Shattered
by TheFirstOfThisName
Summary: AU OOTP. Harry can't deal with the events of the past years. He cracks. But is the Boy-Who-Lived and the Gryffindor Golden Boy really what Harry needs to be? Darker!Harry Jaded!Harry Crazy!Harry? WiP, no pairing as of yet, Rated for Language. Light to Medium intensity Bashing! All around.


Author's Note: I do not own the rights to Harry Potter, nor am I beng paid for this work. Not that I would be even if it were allowed.

I appreciate all constructive feedback, good/bad. Please review!

PROLOGUE

The day when Harry James "Scarhead" Potter finally cracked came not, as the powerful seer Draco Malfoy predicted, during the decidedly difficult and particularly perilous trials of the Triwizard Tournament, nor as the result of a prolonged imposition upon the vaunted comforts of the island prison of Azkaban. As fickle fate, or the uncaring universe, or some detatched deity, or perhaps chance would have it, the breaking of young Mr. Potter's mind was an event that passed unmarked by his erstwhile friends, teachers, instructors, and various others who professed to care for, or even love him. While those closest to him chattered inanely, sharing bits of information that were forgotten as soon as the air escaped their speaker's teeth, Harry was lying on his back, a crumpled piece of parchment with the Ministerial seal clutched in one hand, the other pressed against a recently purpled eye. At that exact moment, at 12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, Ronald Bilius Weasley and Hermione Jane Granger sat across from one another at a table, idly playing Wizard's Chess while Ginevra Molly Weasley watched, privately fantasizing in turns about snogging Dean Thomas and marrying the Boy-Who-Lived. Molly Weasley née Prewett bustled through the kitchen, berating a sheepishly grinning Sirius Orion Black over some truly heinous crime, like taking a roll before the entire table was set. Remus John Lupin watched with a vaguely amused air, lips turned upwards slightly. He, at least, had some sense of the pointlessness of it all, how truly insignificant all of their scruples were.

* * *

It started with Cedric, Harry decided as he lay in the shattered remains of the coffee table. It, along with his now almost assuredly-forming black eye were the latest gifts from his dear Uncle, Vernon Dursley, for coming home and having practiced his freakishness on poor "Dudders". Cedric had started this...feeling. See, despite how hard he had tried, how much he had worked, the dangers he'd faced, the amount of bumbling he had put up with from the adults of this world who supposedly were not incompetents and who allegedly had his best interests at heart, the idiocy he had put up with from his peers, friends, and professors, and the grace with which he had borne the unbridled malice of the libelous press, he had still failed. Cedric was dead, Voldemort had been raised...bugger it all, the Minister, faced with a dead student anclothe fresh corpse of a man though dead for thirteen years, now believed the whole fiasco a hoax, Albus Dumbledore a crazed old coot, and Harry Potter an attention-seeking little prat.

That was a lot, but Harry was used to challenges, and hard times, and no one giving half a shit about him, even actively despising him. So, it was business as usual, and he took it like a good little soldier.

Then came the end of turn. He didn't get to go to his godfather, a man who still genuinely cared for him despite the universe's best efforts. Instead, he got to go home to his relatives: Uncle Vernon, free with his fists and even freer with his tongue, Aunt Petunia, a woman who was remarkably skilled with the cast-iron pans, and Cousin Dudley, whose little gang of miscreants and future inhabitants of the local penitentiary decided it was always open season, and he a nine-point buck. But then again, he was used to it, so he took it like a good little soldier and gave them his best shit-eating grin and went off with three of the six people he hated most in the world.

A month later, he hadn't heard from any of the hypocritical pricks (prats, because Harry Potter was never so un-gallant as to otherwise utter such an offensive word) outside of the most inane and stupid questions to ever touch parchment: 'How are you?' 'Are you all right?' 'Who do you think the new Defense Professor will be this year?' Honestly. These were the question his best friends were asking him.

Who the _fuck _cared who the new teacher was going to be when the darkest magical being since the time of Merlin was now corporeal and itching to kill people?

Harry didn't say that, of course. And he couldn't tell them how he was feeling, about the guilt that tore him apart, how he had encouraged Cedric on a course of actions that ended in him dead, how he had taken away Amos Diggoy's pride and joy, how he had been _inches _away from Peter Pettigrew a ticket to Sirius' freedom. How he had given Voldemort his body back, he he had been stupid enough to be captured in the first place.

But he was Harry Potter, stoic Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Gryffindor Golden Boy, and nothing so insignificant as being responsible for one murder and now surely more to come could faze him. Right?

_Right?_

But then August 2nd came. It was really hot. It hadn't rained for a really long time. It felt like the underside of the devil's nutsack.

Did he mention the temperature was significantly above average?

That wasn't so bad. Not much one can do about the sun. But then it got dark, Harry was I the park, Dudley and his gang of posers posed, and Harry stood his ground, so naturally they scampered off. But that's boring, not nearly exciting enough, so the universe vomited up a pair of Dementors for Harry to fight. And he did so, saving the damsel in distress (this time his cousin, instead of Ginny Weasley from a Basilisk). Dudley was heavier, and sweatier, but he saved him anyway. So now Harry made his way home, the fifteen-year old wizard having driven off two Dementors with the casual casting of the Patronus Charm. Big fucking hero, right?

Wrong!

Instead of a ticker-tape parade, Vernon opens the door, takes one look at the two boys, and grabs Harry by the collar. He gets roughed around a bit, Vernon demanding that he take off whatever freakishness the boy put on his son. Petunia fusses over Diddykins n the corner, and Dudley looks Confunded-so, more or less normal, just even sweatier.

That's not so bad, after all, Dudley can explain it all and Vernon'll lay off a bit. So, of course, at that exact moment, seven minutes after the actual incident occurs, an owl from the Ministry of magic comes, telling him that he is expelled for his illegal use of the Patronus Charm in a Muggle-populated area, and that his wand will be snapped. Oh joy.

Vernon sees this, and in Harry's shock, presents him with a rather lovely demonstration of a right hook which he no doubt will be trying to instill into his elephantine son. Harry goes down like a rag doll, taking the table with him.

Maybe this isn't so bad, though. After all, if he gets expelled, all this is suddenly somebody else's problem - probably Dumbledore's. That thought gives him an unhealthy amount of vindictive glee.

Vernon seems ready to something: maybe finish the job, or maybe apologize, Harry'll never know. At that moment, another owl swoops in. It's Pigwidgeon, Ron's owl, a gift from Sirius, only the parchment is addressed from Arthur.

_Harry-_

_Dumbledore's just arrived at the Ministry and he's trying to sort it all out. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE'S HOUSE._ _DO NOT DO ANY MORE MAGIC. DO NOT SURRENDER YOUR WAND._

_ Arthur Weasley_

What?

Dumbledore...is going to sort all this out.

A slow, gurgling chortle escaped from between Harry's lips. He couldn't help it. He couldn't stop it. It was, after all, the greatest joke in the world. Not even this night, his life...Harry Potter was a walking, living, breathing joke.

Vernon seemed ready to say something, but stopped. The boy was laughing now, and it was bloody unsettling. Those eyes of his turned so damn eerie...

Harry Potter released a sudden giggle. It was not a throaty sound anymore, no, this was almost girlish. Vernon Dursley figured the boy really did have a screw loose, and quietly gathered his wife and son. He grabbed his keys, and ushered his family out the door.

None of this registered with Harry. He was still lying there, chest shaking as he let loose his laughter, tears streaming freely down his cheeks.

Slowly, his mirth faded. He couldn't be sure how long he'd laughed, and he knew that the joke was still damn funny, but he didn't feel like laughing anymore. He looked upwards, saw the ceiling and its poor paint job. Each brush stroke was still plainly distinguishable from the other. Eyes narrowing suddenly, iridescent green orbs sparkling with intensity, he began to count the brushstrokes, bristle by bristle.

* * *

At 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, at eleven thirty-two Post-meridiem, Greenwich Mean Time Zone, on a Tuesday, August 2nd 1995, there wasn't any light conversation, any of the chattel's chattering. It was quiet, a blessed silence, the silence of the dead. Or the mad.

But really, what was madness? The breaking of the mind? Could the mad not think, not reason? If the mind was in fact broken, then why did he continue to think? According to a really, really brilliant Muggle scientist, insanity was, in fact, "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results".

If that was the case, then what was this, but sanity, clarity, freedom?

For the last four years of his life, for all his time spent in Hogwarts, he had stayed the course. He'd done the right thing, been on the moral high ground, the poster boy for all thing Light and good and happy, so everyone else could live in the magical fantasy land while he got his hands dirty.

He didn't see anyone lift a finger to do anything about the Sorceror's Stone, the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets; Dumbledore sixty fifty years, and Harry had it finished in the course of one - as a twelve-year old!

It was funny how long it had taken him to come to that conclusion, though. He had managed to count the individual bristles (3407) in the three square feet area directly above his head. His eyes crept back up to the ceiling, and he became quickly engrossed in finding amusing shapes. Harry thought that he saw one that vaguely resembled a gorilla, which made him snort softly. He still hadn't moved, either, something he was not quite sure why he had refused to do so. The letter in his hand grew slightly moist in his clammy palms.

A casual glance toward the clock told him that it was now August 3rd, 1995. A Wednesday, three fourteen Ante-meridiem, Greenwich Mean Time Zone. apparently he had been staring for four hours.

_That's odd. The one patch above the mantelpiece looks like a bloke's bits._

* * *

Harry took a breath.

He blinked.

Three seconds later came another breath.

Another blink.

He placed his hand over his left breast, stilling his body of all other movement.

_Lub dup. Lub dup. Lub dup._

He felt the gentle throbbing of his heart. So, he was alive.

He felt so...peculiar. It was like...nothing he'd ever felt before. So detached. Like he had no worries, no constant pressures to be perfect. After all, the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter, was a joke. A lie. He could be free. He didn't have to be so perfect, so...immaculate. Just to sit, and think of...nothing. It was ecstasy.

His eyes were drawn to the lintel.

* * *

A breath.

A blink.

_Lub dup. Lub dup. Lub dup._

* * *

Harry shook his head suddenly, attention diverted. Rays of sunlight were peaking through the windows. His body ached. A second glance at the clock told him that it was five fifty-two Ante-meridiem, Greenwich Mean Time Zone. A Saturday...August 6th, 1995.

"Huh."

He supposed he should get something to eat. Yes, it wouldn't be a fitting end for Harry Potter, to die of starvation and dehydration. Giggling loudly at first, Harry managed to contain himself and make his way to the kitchen, sore and stiff muscles protesting.

Once there, he helped himself to a Dursley-sized meal: sandwiches and crisps, an apple, a quarter of an apple pie, and a chocolate bar he found underneath Dudley's grapefruits.

After eating his fill, he poured himself a tall glass of water. Suddenly, it was empty, and he felt it trickling down his throat into his already stuffed stomach. Turning on the faucet, he filled it again, before greedily gulping it down. A third followed, before he found himself with a fourth full glass of water in front of him at the table.

A glance at the clock above the stove indicated that only one hour had passed, and yet, Harry found himself mildly curious that he was still alone. Usually, Petunia was up by now.

Shrugging, his eyes slid to his glass, and he watched as one bead of condensation formed, sliding down the outside, clinging to the glass and coming to pool on his finger.

A small droplet formed, the meniscus burst, and the tiny drop slid from his skin to the floor.

_Drip._

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

A breath.

A blink.

_Lub dup. Lub dup. Lub du-_

* * *

The glass that had been in front of him was gone.

There was a hand on his shoulder. A man's hand. Harry was sure of it. He also knew there were others in the room. He could hear them, their inane chatter, the cattle. Suppressing the urge to turn on the bloke beside him and seeing how many times he could hit him before the others jumped in, he instead spoke, his voice scratchy from disuse, "Well hello, you lot."

The cattle stilled.

A voice answered him. "Harry?" It was soft, reserved. Cautious, like speaking to a wounded beast.

Harry offered his trademark grin, that shit-eating thing that was so obviously fake that those idiots just loved. "Who else were you expecting?"

Their hero, obviously.

The other responded, "Well, no one, actually. As I'm sure you know, your Aunt and Uncle aren't here, but on a-"

Harry sort of stopped listening here. Apparently, they wanted to crow about whatever scheme Dumbledore cooked up to keep his relatives out of the house. Assuming they ever came back after Tuesday.

The tightening of the hand on Harry's shoulder indicated they wanted a response to something. Having no idea whatsoever the question was, he decided that he would use one of Harry Potter's trademark phrases, and focused his eyes on whoever it was that was speaking. "S'Okay."

The fingers relaxed their hold on him.

Wait.

That worked? They actually bought that?

Merlin, everyone must think Harry Potter is a complete imbecile.

Harry quickly focused in again. It wouldn't be prudent to be caught in a daze again. He tried a new tactic. "It's rather dark in here, would you lot mind turning on a light?"

There was a flurry of movement as someone tripped and knocked over a chair before another figure had the presence of mind to hit a lightswitch. Harry was rather surprised to see the analog clock indicating that it was, in fact, eight fifteen. He could only assume in the evening.

It seemed the one clutching his should was the crazy (maybe only observant) Alastor Moody, hopefully naught Bartemius Crouch, Jr., and the one with the soft voice was Remus. The others? He wasn't sure. A woman with purple hair, a tall black man with Auror robes, a couple of old blokes, another unfamiliar woman...

He decided to take the initiative. "Remus. Why are all these strange kitchen in my kitchen?"

Lupin's eyes narrowed suddenly, almost imperceptibly.

_Balls. I didn't say 'Professor Lupin'. Fuck you, Harry Potter._

However, it seemed he would keep that to himself, and instead offered Harry information. "These, Harry, are Kingsley Shacklebolt" the black fellow "Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Doge" old blokes "Emmeline Vance" the unremarkable looking woman "Alastor Moody, you already know, and Nymphadora Tonks."

The woman with purple hair shot Remus a death glare, and he hastily amended that "And she shall be known by her surname only."

Harry was quickly getting tired of people. He really felt like trying to go outside and see what Privet Drive _really_ looked like, over the course of fifteen hours or so. "Sorry, Professor Lupin," he was really happy he caught that this time, "not that it isn't good to see you lot, but why are you...well, why are you all here?"

Lupin looked really fucking confused now. Harry had gotten that term of address right, and was back to being impeccably polite. Trying to mask the conflict, he waved away the apology. "Not to worry, Harry, but we've come to take you away."

Harry frowned. This did _not _sound like he would be doing any watching. "But why? I mean, I do have a trial in..." He cast about desperately. He had no idea how long he had been at that table, no cue what the day way. The trial was the...twelfth? Obviously, it hadn't happened yet, so... "...a few days. Wouldn't it look bad if I run and hide from the courts?"

The black fellow, Shackleblot? Bolt? Whoever he was, the bloke shook his head. "No, Mr. Potter. I am an Auror, and would have full knowledge of your location. The Minister would not be able to make any such accusations."

Harry nodded slowly, trying to look as though he were accepting the idea. Sensing no other way out, though, he decided to resort to the most sure-fire way to rouse suspicion, but...his only real option. "As nice as that sounds, and I'm sorry to have wasted you lot a trip, but I think I'm going to have to decline." Pushing past the gobsmacked expression on Remus Lupin's face and the slightly miffed ones on the others, he added, "As you said, my Aunt and Uncle are away and I don't think I would feel comfortable just leaving without any warning to them at all."

Remus still seemed to be in a bit of shock. "I...Harry, what...but...don't you want to see your friends?"

Harry sighed, trying to get into it. Honestly, these people were so thick. "Of course I do, but I don't want to be branded a runaway, either."

"Don't worry, Harry, Dumbledore said-" Remus began.

It was all Harry could do not to fucking break down and start giggling like a little girl. Again. Instead, he quickly started talking before Lupin went down that road and sent him into hysterics. "Excuse me, Professor Lupin, but is Professor Dumbledore my legal guardian?"

"No, but-"

"My Aunt and Uncle are, correct?"

"Of course they are Harry, but-"

"And the only official capacity that pertains to me that Albus Dumbledore acts in is as Headmaster of my school, while I am a student, which is only when school is in session?" Harry pressed. Merlin, if only they would all go away...

"What are you getting at, Harry?"

He sighed, trying to show that he was more annoyed at the answer that Remus. "I mean that legally, Professor, 'Dumbledore said' doesn't mean anything, and that as much as I want to see Ron and Hermione, I can't become a runaway, either."

For the first time, Moody spoke up, those fingers tightening to an almost painful degree. "We weren't asking, lad."

Harry stood up, slowly and deliberately. He carefully pried Moody's fingers off him. "Professor. The last time I saw that face, Barty Crouch Jr. was trying to kill me, so excuse me if this comes across as crass, but touch me again, and I'll break the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery until they snap my wand or every bone in your body is shattered." He stepped closer, lips pulled back in a slight snarl. "Now get the fuck out of my house you bunch of wannabe vigilantes."

Harry stood aside, refueling rather satisfied at the general expressions of shock. Finally, Shacklebulb...bolt...smacked his hands together. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Potter. But you are correct, we have no legal ability to take you from your home. I think it is obvious we have outstayed our welcome."

The two old blokes followed after him, one seemingly very disappointed Harry didn't say anything to him. The two women followed after, the purple-haired one giving the teenager a scathing look. Moody looked absolutely scandalized that they hadn't at least rebuked Harry for saying that and then taking him anyway, and Lupin...Well, he felt a little bad for the werewolf. It couldn't be easy having your hopes crushed like that. Oh wait. Harry really couldn't find that empathy. The feeling was second nature to him.

Harry just said cheekily, "The door's right there, Professor."

He received some long, unreadable look in return, before Remus' shoulders slumped, and he trudged out the door.

The door shut with a soft _click. _Harry figured they'd probably be watching, making sure he was actually there. His exploration of the neighborhood could wait. He glanced down at the fastened latch.

_Click._

_Drip. Drip._

A breath.

A blink.

_Lub dup. Lub dup. Lub dup._


End file.
